Do You Really Want to Ask That?
by Lassuel
Summary: While Sherlock and John are trying to catch a killer at a night club, Sherlock does something unexpected. Trying to figure out what it means, John decides to play games with Sherlock. This cannot end well. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**I want to give credit where credit it due. While I came up with this idea on my own, I do believe that others have done the same. I have not read their stories and have stolen nothing, except for borrowing from BBC, of course. I have written the whole of this story, but it may change depending on reviews and suggestions. **

**I want to say ahead of time, thank you, reader, for taking your time to read my story. ****I hope you enjoy it.**

**And without further ado, I present _Do You Really Want to Ask That?_**

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They were standing in a club that John didn't find particularly comfortable with. In all honesty, John didn't enjoy clubs to begin with. He much preferred sitting in a pub with a cold pint and one or two close friends. This club, however, had the doctor wanting to jump out of his skin.

The consulting detective and his doctor colleague had been tracking down a serial killer with an interest in gay men. He had found victims at different clubs around London and Sherlock was under the opinion that he would strike here next. Not only had the taller man convinced John to come along as an extra pair of eyes - "What about that caring business you keep going on about? Don't you want to stop this man from killing another?" - but he had also managed to get John into something a bit more fashionable.

Under the impression that his usual jumpers would stick out like a sore thumb, John now sat at a too small table in a thumpingly-loud, crowded room sipping orange juice, pretending it was a screwdriver, wearing a black and white striped shirt and jeans one size too small. It was about halfway through Sherlock telling him what to wear that it dawned on the doctor. Sherlock wanted to use his to lure their killer. John could see Sherlock scanning the room from across the top of swaying and gyrating bodies on the dance floor in the center of the getting-warmer-by-the-minute basement business.

The shorter man pulled at his pants, took a sip of his drink, and went back to scanning the room. Their killer seemed to have a preference for masculine gay men. Men that didn't particularly come across initially as gay and may have been reluctant to realize their sexuality. That being said, the former soldier now got to play the role of bait considering he fit the role almost perfectly. The only snag was the fact that he was attracted to women. The only part of this plan that John really didn't like was the fact that he couldn't carry his gun. Unfortunately, neither of them had it. The loud clubs of London's gay scene were notorious drug spots. The clubs had to increase their security and pat downs when Scotland Yard had increased their busts and patrols. And as every good club owns knows, more police is bad for business. Consequently, the weapon remained at home, locked in John's room.

They had been there for an hour with John feeling more and more conspicuous by the minute. His head was pounding from the obnoxious noises coming from the DJ. Despite his desire to see the murderer put away for good, he couldn't help wanting to go home, take a paracetamol, and sleep.

"You look lonely." A very petite man about John's height wearing a neon green shirt and black leather pants sidled up to John with an orange colored drink in one hand, presumably for John, and a pink one in the other. John had a sinking feeling that this wasn't their killer. The man didn't have an ounce of upper body strength on him and was thoroughly smashed.

"Uh... Hello." John couldn't help but be awkward; it was difficult enough for him to turn away drunk women at a pub, but now he had to turn away a man without revealing the fact that he wasn't gay. John played a number of scenarios in his head of different things he could say to refuse the man. None of them ended particularly well in his opinion. Just as he was about to be as frank as possible, someone interrupted him.

"Sorry you keep you waiting." A baritone voice sounded in his left ear, a hand felt its way across his lower back till it was gently holding onto his waist, and a soft set of lips pecked a little kiss on his temple. Swallowing the lump in his throat, John turned his head left and up to see Sherlock standing next to him.

"Hey, you." It was all John managed to force past the lump. He thought it could sound like an endearing sort of thing that one says to their significant other. At the same time, it also came out sounding as if he were being strangled. Though he was considered brave, he wasn't the actor like Sherlock was.

"Oh, well, bye." The petite man took his two drinks and slipped back into the crowd.

John released the breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding as a group of young women, clearly a hens party, roariusly cheered on the bride-to-be taking shots. "Thanks for that, but did you just blow the plan?"

"Not entirely. There's one particular man I'm watching. He's chatting up another ex-soldier, only this one is deeply in the closet. I noticed that fellow slip something into the drink on his way over here. I would assume to make you seem more comfortable and willing to sleep with him. You haven't been coming across as desirable, John. Probably why that man choose another target." Sherlock removed his hand from John's waist.

"Oh." John took a sip of his very virgin orange juice. Next time, Sherlock could play the role of bait, John thought to himself. The shorter man was just getting his nerves back under him when the hand was back to touching him. In the warm room, John was thoroughly surprised at how much heat radiated from that single touch.

"Kiss me." John looked up at the younger man; the lump was back. Sherlock was staring directly into his eyes. However, having lived with Sherlock for a while now, John could tell that those eyes were actually focused elsewhere.

"What?" He gulped.

Sherlock let out a sigh of frustration or exasperation, John couldn't quite tell which this time, and pulled John up by his shirt. The two set of lips slammed into each other. On instinct, John closed his eyes. He had never kissed anyone on his toes before. Though he had kissed a few women who were taller than him, they usually bent over a bit more allowing him to remain on stable ground. His second thought, though, was how soft the lips on his were. He should have figured that Sherlock wouldn't have cracked lips, but it still surprised him. Sherlock didn't typically take care of his body in the normal fashion. Indeed, John wouldn't have been surprised to find completely cracked lips on his.

When there was no movement from his partner's end, he peaked an eye open. Sherlock had one eye open only a fraction of an inch. He was still watching something or someone. After what felt like minutes, but could only have been seconds, the fist on his shirt began to push him back to his original position and the lips left his. He saw Sherlock take off out of the club. John quickly followed, grabbing their coats from the coat check and found his flatmate standing on the sidewalk just outside.

"Lose him?" John passed the long black coat over as he pulled on his own leather one.

"Apparently." Sherlock hailed a cab as John noticed that his heart was beating too fast for having bolted from the club and his lips were tingling.


	2. Chapter 2

**So, thanks for all the support I've been getting. Sorry for the glitch, but I uploaded this chapter without adding in an author's note.**

**For those of you who haven't figured it out, I'm an American, so my terminology, slang, etc. is probably wrong or different. Feel free to correct me, please.**

**Happy reading!**

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That night, lying in bed, John thought back to the kiss. It had been chaste and necessary for their case, according to Sherlock. John hadn't quite gotten a good reason out of the man, but Sherlock had been distracted by trying to figure out the killer's next possible hunting ground. Still, there hadn't been any passion in the kiss. But why was John still thinking about it? Mycroft had insinuated that Sherlock was a virgin. However, Sherlock had flirted back, in his own way, with Irene Adler most adeptly when she had stayed with them for that short period of time.

The doctor rolled over. He needed sleep: he had work at the surgery in the morning. As he start to drift off, he remember the pressure of Sherlock's arm around him and the hand on his waist.

_Someone was kissing John. Their lips were soft and they fit against his own perfectly. It wasn't a rough kiss, but there was something lying under it, room for more. Slowly, the lips shifted till they were enveloping his bottom lip. The lips started to press harder against his. The two bits of skin opened a little, catching his lip and began to suck. Then, tentatively, a tongue swept across his skin._

_Everything felt so right, but he was scared that if he was too aggressive, the kisser would leave. His own tongue carefully came out and touched the other lips. His partner's tongue, then came and flicked the tip of John's. His senses lit up like the New Year's fireworks display for the new millenium. Every touch became electric, every movement shot tingles down his spine. The man could feel himself shaking._

_As their tongues began to play a game of exploration of each other, John felt two hands on his neck. One pulled him closer while the other nestled itself into his short, blonde hair. As he moved closer to his kissing companion, he noticed that something felt a little strange. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, though. It was as his own hands reached up to entangle themselves in short, curly hair that he figure it out; his head was bent upward._

_Carefully, John opened his eyes to see who he was kissing. It was Sherlock Holmes._

John's body jolted itself away. He was breathing deeply and his lips were stinging as if electricity had been run through them. Keeping his eyes closed, he reached up to touch them. There were warm and sensitive, as if he had actually been kissing. He took a deep breath and rolled out of bed, looking around. His clock blinked "5:13". He still had forty-seven minutes before the alarm would go off, but he doubted that he would get back to sleep in time.

Deciding to have a cup of tea before getting in the shower, John headed out of his room with his dressing gown and down the stairs. There was a light on in the living room. Sherlock must not have slept last night. Sure enough, as John entered the kitchen, he found Sherlock sitting in his chair contemplating something wearing the same clothes as the night before, only this time his jacket was thrown haphazardly on the couch across the room.

"I'm making a cuppa, would you like one?" John asked of the man. It was habit for John to ask when he saw Sherlock and was making his own cup.

"Alright." Was the only reply he got out his flatmate. John was taken aback that he even got a complete word out of the man. If John was lucky, Sherlock would grunt an affirmation. Typically, however, John was ignored and texted hours later with a question as to his whereabouts.

As John was waiting for the kettle to boil, he looked over at his friend. Sherlock was sitting there with his eyes closed and his hand laid together under his chin. His eyes landed on Sherlock's lips. John had become very comfortable with the fact that he wasn't gay over the time he spent with the detective and people's questions. But he couldn't help thinking of something once said, "Well, I am. Look at us both." There was something about Sherlock that required people to think differently than they normally would.

John wondered, a little absentmindedly, if Sherlock's real lips would act like the dream lips. He could feel his heart rate increasing and his face heating up. Quickly, he turned away, hoping Sherlock hadn't noticed John's physical changes. John had learned from experience that even if the detective's eyes were closed, he was always observing his surroundings. The ex-soldier finished getting the tea prepared and took the two cups and saucers into the living room. He placed the one for Sherlock on the arm of his chair and started to pull away when a palm and long fingers closed around his left wrist. The hand was colder than his and sent a shock up his arm. John tried to jerk his hand away, but the grip wouldn't release him.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, heart pounding.

"You hardly said a word to me after leaving the club last night. You awoke before your alarm clock, though not voluntarily, which would imply you were woken by a dream. As you made tea, you stared most ardently at me, your breathing increased and your face reddened. That would suggest that I was the object of your dream. Now, as I look at you, your pupils have dilated, your face is flushed, and heart rate elevated. Considering you are pointedly not looking at me while having minutely licked your lips, I have only one question to ask you: Do you want me to kiss you again?"

If it were at all possible, John would have sworn that all movement, noise, time, and his heart had stopped. He wasn't gay. He had no sexual attractions to anyone of the same gender as himself. But, apparently, Sherlock wasn't anyone. He was Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world and, much of the time, the most infuriating man ever to have existed. And John wanted nothing more than to grab the stupidly expensive shirt and kiss the man. He tried taking a few deep breaths; he was going to need to answer this rationally and calmly. What would kissing Sherlock entail? If this were any other flatmate, a kiss could go in one of three directions: 1) it means nothing and nothing changes; 2) things get awkward; or 3) a relationship is started. But John didn't know if Sherlock had ever been in a relationship. He did know that whatever it had been between the detective and The Woman, Sherlock had figuratively collapsed in on himself, like a dying sun after its initial expansion, when she had faked her death.

But was John reading too far into the question? Did Sherlock just want to know if John wanted to kiss him, but not actually perform the act? It would be much easier for John to let his new-found attraction run its course if he knew that Sherlock wasn't attracted to the doctor. John had lived through previous crushes and was still friendly with a couple of those women. He took one more deep breath and looked into Sherlock's face.

The younger man was studying him. His grey eyes pierced through the doctor's and explored his soul. As he looked, John was very happy he had been careful when he had punched Sherlock. The man's face could have been carved by Michelangelo and John wouldn't have known the difference. Just as he was about to give his answer, the other man's phone vibrated. Sherlock's hand released John's wrist and went for the phone on the other arm of the chair. John shakily stood up and went to his chair with his tea. He took a few sips as Sherlock responded to a text.

"There was another body found about an hour ago. Three blocks from the club." John, assuming the text had come from Lestrade, didn't have to ask to know that he was referring to the club they had visited the previous night. Their plan of catching the killer before there was another victim had completely failed. John sighed, feeling guilty that they hadn't been able to stop their killer in time. However, John had obligations to attend to. Sherlock would be able to make his observations and deductions without the doctor at his side.

"Right. Well, I have to be at the surgery in - ," he looked at the clock on the wall, "an hour. Enjoy the crime scene. Tell Lestrade hello for me." With that, John left his cup on his side table and quickly went to go take a shower. While part of him wanted to help out on the case, another part was thrilled that he had an excuse to get away from his colleague, friend, something. Sherlock was gone by the time he came out of the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**I have to say that I'm really thrilled about the response I've been getting back about this. Like most people, I have insecurities about my writing, so it's nice to have an anonymous way to post things for people to read. Anyways, sorry for the long delay in update. I had a couple of job interviews out of my state. Thinking they didn't go very well, I high tailed it home as quick as I could. The morning after I got back (late at night, of course) I got a call from one of the places saying they wanted a second interview. I'm back on the road this weekend, again. Good thing I like road trips.**

**I'll get off of me and get on with the story. As usual, if there are any errors or misnomers or anything of the sort, please feel free to let me know.**

**Happy readings!**

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John was coming home later than usual. There had been a backlog of patients and parents worried about the latest flu virus going around. It was up for a debate as to which type of patient he disliked the most: the obsessive parents, the hypochondriac patients, or the ones without any qualms about illness hygiene and personal space.

All John wanted to do was make a sandwich, have some tea, and go to bed. As he came up the stairs to the flat, he noticed the light on. Stopping, he considered leaving the flat again. He really didn't want to have to deal with Sherlock at the moment. He would have to answer his question and John hadn't figured out what that meant precisely. He knew what answer he was going to give that morning, but having excess time to think about it had made him rethink what he was going to say. However, the situation would only be worse if he avoided it altogether because Sherlock would know and point it out.

Deciding it was better to get it over with, John continued his journey upward. As he entered the living room, he pulled off his coat and started to say, "Hello, Sherlock." but only got halfway through the sentence when he realized that his flatmate wasn't there. Quickly glancing down the hall, Sherlock's door was closed. Was he home? Should John go and knock on his door? If he did go down there, he would have no choice but to give his answer. However, if he ignored the situation and pretended that someone must have left the light on at some point - probably Sherlock - then he could go about his business.

Suddenly feeling much better, John's shoulders relaxed downward as he put his coat on the hook and headed into the kitchen. He could now watch crap telly without Sherlock yelling at the screen and have a peaceful moment all to himself. It could be the perfect evening. Or just what the doctor ordered; John chuckled at himself amusedly.

Not only that, but this quiet evening gave the doctor the time he needed to contemplate his thinkings and feelings regarding his flatmate. Resting comfortably in his chair, the Union Jack pillow nestled between his leg and the arm chair, and sipping a cup of Double Bergamont, he ignored the noise from the telly to reflect inwardly. John wasn't gay.

John had many opportunities throughout his life to figure out his sexuality, particularly when he had to go into numerous bars to drag his kind and loving sister, barely able to walk, home and into bed or, more often as not, dropped unceremoniously onto a couch. Those memories were probably part of the reason why he had been so uncomfortable at the club Sherlock had dragged him to. He had been hit on before, but it was a hundred times easier when he could say that he was there for a specific purpose.

Content with that part of his analyzation, he stated to no one in particular, "well, looks like I'm not gay, still."

Then, there was obviously something about Sherlock that was messing with John. Well, Sherlock messed with everyone's heads. Mrs. Hudson, a reputable and kind woman, would giggle at Sherlock's happiness for murder while always asked John to change the channel when whatever they were watching got too violent. It was all Sherlock's fault then. John was now having a crisis of sexuality because he had decided to move in with a lunatic on a whim. Not a whim per se; John had wanted to be more in the city center, the rent was ridiculously low, and he wasn't waking up to panic attacks most evenings any more.

Putting his finished cup back in its saucer, John decided to conduct an experiment. Leaning his head back against the chair, he pulled up a mental image of Sherlock. He knew that in his mind's eye, Sherlock's length was stretched somewhat and his limbs elongated. But that's how the shorter man always felt next to his friend. Taking a deep breath, John focused on the detective's face. There were those high cheekbone's, almost sunken from lack of food, the jet black curly hair, and the pale eyes that John couldn't quite put a finger on the color because it always seemed to change. A blue hinge when the man was excited. Green when he was angry or bored, which very often coincided. And just plain gray when he was thinking. None of those things seemed to cause in John a physical change he would amount to desire or attraction.

But it was the lips that finally gave John a shortness of breath and rapid heart rate. Those soft, thin, pale lips that had finally set them on this crash course trajectory. How they smashed into his during their first kiss, a mix of naivete and passion, but intending for neither. Their softness in the dream. But that was it, Sherlock hadn't actually kissed John like that. It had been John's own brain who had come up with those passions and desires. Thinking that he might have found a way out of his dilemma, John stood up from his chair, and went to the kitchen with his dishes and the intention to clean and get ready for bed.

As he stood in front of the sink, drying off the last piece of silverware, another thought occurred to the doctor. Even if the desire to kiss Sherlock had been awakened by a dream, not only were they still awakened, but his subconscious must have had a desire from prior to the dream to kiss the man. Not only that, but the problem of answering Sherlock's question was still there. John groaned, put the fork away, and went back to the living room to turn off the telly. He was royally screwed so he might as well try to get some sleep before the neurotic younger man came bounding in demanding an answer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Short chapter is short. I am not a very prolific writer, sorry. **

**So, two things are going on. First is that I got the job! **

**The second is that I'm playing around with the ending of this and wondering if I should expand it more, explore some things or ideas. Not sure yet, we'll see how I feel about it as I continue to post.**

**Anyways, happy reading!**

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"John."

The man, who was now no longer asleep, had been startled awake by his lacking-certain-niceties flatmate. As the name had left the taller man's lips, John had jumped in his sleep, sitting straight up, and reaching for a weapon under his pillow that he hadn't hidden there since being out in the Middle East.

"Christ, Sherlock." John put a hand on his chest, trying to slow his racing heart. At one point, he hadn't been particularly worried about heart attacks, but since moving in with the younger Holmes, he absolutely believed that his chance of having one had increased at an alarming rate. "What do you want?" It had come out sounding harsher than he intended, but he had just been woken up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night. He looked at Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed down by the foot-board.

"Your answer." Clearing his adrenaline fogged mind, he had to think for a second about what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock wanted John's answer to the kiss question.

"You wanted to know my answer. In the middle of the night. When I was asleep. After a difficult day at the surgery, which I'm assuming you already knew somehow. Did it ever occur to you to maybe, I don't know, wait till I got up in the morning?"

"It is the morning." John glanced at his clock.

"Four A.M. doesn't count." He laid back down on his bed.

"Since you are awake now and the idea of me waiting till you had gotten up on your own is pointless now, what is your answer?"

"Is this really bugging you that much?" One look at Sherlock's face and John knew the answer to that particular question. "Maybe I'll just wait a little while longer and let it really get under your skin." He chuckled; it wasn't every day that John had something that he could hold over the definitely-cleverer man.

"Every observation that I have made is that you would like me to kiss you again. Is this true?"

"You'll just have to wait to find out." The doctor could not help himself. If Sherlock liked games, he would get one that would keep him busy till kingdom come. "Have you found our killer yet?"

"Yes, she was a member of the hens party last night. She's been at several along with general 'girl's nights out' over the past several weeks and doesn't particularly like gay men. In fact, she's homophobic and a member of the Anglican Mainstream. The fact that the killer was a woman made me miss it at first."

"But of course, you solved it. Congratulations." John rolled onto his side, away from Sherlock, hoping that he would get the message.

"Of course, I solved it. However, you are avoiding the question."

"No, I'm not. I'm just putting off answering it."

"But everything about you has answered it."

"Obviously not, or you wouldn't be here right now pestering me."

"I could make you answer." John rolled to face the other man. There was a strip of light from a street lamp that came in through the curtains on his window. John didn't know if it was by design or not, but the light laid perfectly over Sherlock's face. Having lived with the man long enough to recognize the more subtle moods in the detective, John saw that there was something behind the blank stare that he was currently getting.

It wasn't Sherlock's normal curiosity that desired an answer to a puzzle, nor was it the excitement of a puzzle. In his mind he had already figured it out, so there was nothing to be excited about. Therefore, what was left was a need. Sherlock needed to know the complete answer to a puzzle, not just his deduced one.

Despite Sherlock's need for an answer, he had just finished a case for Lestrade. The weather was taking a turn for the colder so fewer and fewer criminals would want to be out and about. Making Sherlock wait could be just the thing to get them through the lull with out this crazy flatmate shooting at walls or doing something else.

"Want to make a bet on that one? I do have an older sister."

"And I have an older brother, but what does that have anything to do with making a bet?"

"Never mind. What's your bet?"

"Bets are boring."

"Fine then, no bets, but you still won't get the answer out of me." John rolled again, away from Sherlock, and with every intention of going back to sleep as soon as possible.

"I almost got it out of you yesterday morning. What could have happened to make you not want to tell me now?" John smirked at the frustration in Sherlock's voice. "Oh, I see. You think it's funny that I want to know your answer."

"No, I think it's funny at how desperately you want to know the answer. I don't usually get anything to hold over you. Let me enjoy it for once, Sherlock."

After a silent moment passed between them, Sherlock finally asked,."Are you going to tell me or not?"

"Not." As the word came out of his mouth, the weight on the bed left. John suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he had made the wrong choice in playing games with Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry that it's been a while. Been busy with moving and whatnot. **

**Again, please feel free to spot-check for Britishisms V. Americanisms.**

**Happy readings!**

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He had been waiting for something to happen for almost a week. He knew better than to think that Sherlock had lost this obsession for another one; however, the detective had spent the last week using the kitchen singularly for an immense experiment. The fridge had been packed with all sorts of different body parts in various forms of decay and soaked in different compounds and Sherlock had been spending almost of all of his waking time in it. In fact, the doctor was certain that Sherlock was sleeping on the couch, when he did actually sleep and not lay there and think, as he did during a case. John had resorted to Weetabix for most of the his meals when he wasn't at the surgery.

Part of John was glad that Sherlock had something to keep his mind off of trying to get the answer out of him. But part of him was disappointed as well. John had hoped that this 'game' they were playing would be the thing to keep the man occupied. He had been mildly successful in making sure that the detective ate and slept when others couldn't. Maybe, unfortunately, he just couldn't keep the man's mind occupied when it started to rot. John would forever depend on the criminals of London and the world to keep his friend busy.

It was Friday evening when the beginning of Sherlock's first strike happened. John hadn't been expecting it, that was for sure. He had come home, as usual, enjoyed a meal in front of the telly, a nice hot cup of tea, and read for a little while in one of his medical journals before heading for his room. He didn't know something was amiss till he got to his door.

The alarm bells hadn't sounded when he had first seen the door. It was closed, like he usually left it - an attempt at privacy with a flatmate who either knew or cared little of personal boundaries as trivial as a door. As he twisted the knob, he knew he was in trouble. The doorknob turned perfectly, but the wooden entrance wouldn't move. It was then that he noticed a keyhole had been added to the door just above the brass handle. It was a simple hole with no metal fitting, old-fashioned and easily missed. He kneeled down and looked through the keyhole. He could see into his room, but he couldn't get in. Sherlock had added a lock to the door.

John sighed. He didn't want to break his door, but there was obviously no other choice. Without even asking, John knew that the younger man would never give up the key without John's answer. This wasn't enough to make John begin to regret his decision. The ex-soldier stood up and took a step back from the door.

He really didn't want to do this. It was late enough that Mrs. Hudson would have gone to bed and the noise of the good English oak door breaking away from its frame would probably wake her; nonetheless, it would sound similar to a gunshot for those who hadn't heard them regularly. Chuckling at that thought, he wondered how many of their neighbors hadn't heard gunshots since Sherlock moved in. Unfortunately, John also wasn't particularly sure that he was strong enough for this, he hadn't been in the army nor participated in any specific leg muscle exercises beyond the random bouts of running after his flatmate. But it was his only option. He couldn't pick the lock like Sherlock could.

Straightening himself out, John firmly planted his left foot and in a smooth motion, leaned back as he lifted his right foot, taking aim. Throwing his body forward, he used his momentum to slam his foot against the door just right of the door knob. A sharp pain shot up his leg as the door didn't move a milimetre. He brought the leg back down and felt along it and his ankle with his fingers. Everything was fine - throbbing, but fine - however he still hadn't gotten into his room. It was when he lifted his head to glare at the obstacle, that he saw a second keyhole just below the doorknob.

"Bloody bastard." John mumbled to himself.

"Problems?" A smug voice asked quietly from the stairs behind him. Sherlock had watched him try to break into his own room.

"Nope, none a'tall." John stood up. Well, if he couldn't sleep in his own room, he would sleep in Sherlock's. The other man's bed was bound to be better than his own, anyways. He turned on his heel, and headed past Sherlock on the stairs. He could see Sherlock's bewildered face. The clever man had obviously thought that not being able to get into one's room would be the breaking point. Not even close. John had slept on Uni beds, sofas, military cots, wooden floors, and even the dirt/sand ground once or twice. Push come to shove, the ex-soldier could fall asleep where ever he damn well pleased.

As Sherlock watched John make a beeline for his room, Sherlock tried to get there first, attempting to push past John in the hall, but John got there first, shut the door, and locked it. Two could play that game. It was as he heard Sherlock breaking into his own room, that he took the main shaft of the harpoon from the closet and wedged it under the door knob. It would take a lot more out of Sherlock to get the door open than either his picking kit or a credit card.

Stripping down to his pants, he climbed into the silk covered bed. Dear god, he was going to have to steal Sherlock's room more often. The bed sunk to a perfect level, enveloping him in a not-too-soft, not-too-hard, just-right kind of way. The pillows cradled his head perfectly, rising to a level just below his ears. He felt like he was lying on a cloud and wrapped in the softest arms imaginable. As he laid there in this amazing bed, he wondered how long it would take for Sherlock to break into the room. As time passed, the doctor began to doze, and finally fell asleep.

He didn't know how long he had been asleep when he was awoken by the most obscene violin playing he had ever heard. Sherlock was an amazing musician, but what he was playing right now wasn't music. It sounded more like the screech of metal against metal, or a symphony of cats dying. It was also loud enough to wake the dead. Rolling out of bed, he noticed that the harpoon hadn't been moved. Had Sherlock given up breaking into the room?

John removed the weapon, unlocked the door, and opened it. Sure enough, Sherlock was standing just outside holding his violin and bow.

"Oh good, you're awake." Sherlock said, turning around and heading back down the hall. "You need to go get some milk, we're out."

"You do realize that you have probably woken the entire block, yes?"

"Doubtful. Now, go get some milk. I need it for an experiment."

"What happened to manners? You were doing so well for a while there." John hadn't left the doorway. He had no intention of going to the store in the middle of the night for milk when Sherlock was perfectly capable of doing it himself. It didn't even matter that Sherlock was fully dressed and John wasn't.

"Manners are dull."

"Oh, well. I guess you aren't getting milk then."

"So you're saying that I should just use manners to get what I want."

"Yes."

"Alright, please tell me your answer to my question."

"Nope."

"You just said that when I use manners, I will get what I want. By your own logic, I have just used 'manners' and now you should answer my question."

"That's not logic, Sherlock. And you're smart enough to know better." He took a couple of steps back into the room and closed the door, locking it again. He was just about to get back into bed when the violin music started up again. Oh, this was going to be a long night.

He pulled on his clothes and opened the door again. "Right, I'm off to get you some milk. Happy?" John passed Sherlock, grabbed his coat, and headed down the stairs.

"Not particularly."

"Of course, you're not." John let out a deep breath, considering prayer or meditation for not the first time since moving into this flat.


	6. Chapter 6

John was standing in the dairy aisle of a 24-hour market, contemplating. He knew that Sherlock liked 1% milk in his tea. However, Sherlock had never specified what kind of milk he wanted. By saying that he needed it for an experiment, he had opened himself up to John. Now, normally the good doctor would do the nice thing and get Sherlock 1% because that was what he usually wanted.

But John didn't want to play nice right now. It was the middle of the night. He had been deeply asleep. And he hadn't been woken nicely, oh no, he had been woken by abhorrent violin screeching. So as he stood there, staring at the assorted milks, creams, and other dairy products, an idea struck him.

It was a magnificent idea. It was an evil idea. It could get him killed by his flatmate. Or Sherlock could miss the point completely. It wouldn't be the first time, and it wouldn't be the last, if the clever man had a moment of stupid, as John liked to call it. The man particularly liked those moments because it reminded him that the brilliant detective was just as human as the rest of them. Deciding that it was a good idea and he would get at least one chuckle out of it, John now had to figure out exactly how he wanted to carry out his plan.

He was standing at a chip-and-pin machine when a couple of college students, a boy and a girl. came up to another one, talking to each other. John couldn't help over hear their conversation, and from what he heard, he wanted to listen more. So, he specifically slowed down his transaction.

"Eric, I don't understand what Martin keeps going on about with the different between inductive versus deductive reasoning."

"It's really quite simple, Mandy. Deductive reasoning is when you go from a general fact to specific details and inductive is the other way. Think of it this way, if it's a dog, then I know it should have four legs and a tail, deductive. A dog is something that's general, but four legs and a tail is a specific detail. But, if I know the animal has four legs and a tail, I can _induce_ that it's possibly a dog."

"Oh, that explains why Martin kept going on about how that detective fellow's website's title is wrong!"

As John left the store, he couldn't help but laugh at himself. He didn't know if the prank with the milk was going to come around and bite him, but he possibly had a bomb to drop on Sherlock if he ever needed it. He just wanted to make sure that what those students said was correct first.

"Here's your milk." John left the milk by the door to the living room and headed back to Sherlock's room. The door was cracked open. John shook his head. Sherlock had to have known that John would go back to the other man's room. Gently, John closed the door behind him, locked it, and put the harpoon back into place.

"John?" A voice sounded through the door as the doctor was taking his coat off.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Coat was flung on the chair in the corner.

"You didn't get the correct milk." Jumper and shirt dropped on the floor.

"You didn't specify what kind of milk you wanted." Jeans dropped next to shirt.

"I assumed that you knew what I wanted." Bedside light turned off.

"Well, you know what happens when people assume." Body wonderfully slid into the perhaps-still-slightly-warm bed.

"Are you referring to the adage about an ass, because I don't see how that's relevant." John rolled over onto his side, facing the door.

"Actually, it's quite relevant in this case, Sherlock."

"But it doesn't explain why you got dehydrated baby formula."

"You said milk and I purchased it. Might want to be a bit more specific next time. Good night, Sherlock."

_Two soft hands roamed their way across John's bare chest. They weren't just trying to touch any piece of skin they could get at, they were exploring and learning the skin as if to memorize it. Memorizing all the little scars received during life. Memorizing all the little contours, nooks, and crannies that are unique to every individual. The attention they were paying made John blush, but it was when they got to his shoulder that he turned his head._

"_There's no reason to be self-conscious, John." A deep voice purred from next to him._

_John turned to the man sitting next to him, also shirtless. Whimsically, John thought that Sherlock was so pale that he ought to sparkle in the sunlight. That's what he got for dating hopelessly romantic women. But he couldn't help staring at the man. Sherlock's body was built like a god, save for that under-weight bit. Every time John looked at him without a shirt, it reminded him how much the man didn't eat. In fact, John could probably count every one of Sherlock's ribs without even feeling them._

"_I know, Sher."_

_Tired of the examination, John reached up to put his hand behind the other man's neck and pull those lips to his. They came together in a movement of experience and knowledge. Each set knowing how to move to bring sounds out of the other participant. Quickly, the kissed deepened from just the lips to the tongues flicking out to touch skin and the other flesh._

_As the kissed progressed from innocent, John felt the silky bed shift next to him. Sherlock was sliding his body on top of the doctor's so that he was sitting on his stomach. The detective placed his hands on either side of John's head and began kissing down his neck to his shoulder. John opened his eyes to look at the man kissing him. He was leaning over at an absurd angle to kiss him._

"_Dear god, Sherlock, how the hell do you bend like that?"_

"_Is this better?" As Sherlock asked the question, he slid his hips down John's body so that their groins rubbed against each other and kept sliding so the detective was sitting on John's thighs instead. John had let out a short moan when the two had touched. He wanted more, but practice told him that this was going to go at Sherlock's pace._

_Sherlock was now languorously laying kissing and gently nipping at the skin around John's scar. The detective had to know that John had a much lower sensitivity there. It had been a field fix initially and then a base stitching. The other medics and doctors were in a hurry to save his life and thus didn't try to make sure the skin healed back to a somewhat normal resemblance of what it had once been._

"_What is your fascination with that?" _

"_Why are you so conscious about it?"_

"_You know that I can't feel as much right there."_

"_What about here?"_

_Sherlock quickly flicked his tongue across John's nipple. With a sharp intake of breath, the ex-soldier's eyes rolled back into his head and his hands deepened themselves in the dark curls of the head they were holding on to. Slowly, the mouth that knew how to tease made its way lower and lower and lower until..._

BEEP BEEP BEEP

John jolted awake and in that half-awake, half-asleep time after being rudely awakened he haphazardly flung himself off the bed and to his jeans on the ... on the … where the hell were they? Groggily, John looked around the room. It wasn't his phone's alarm that was going off, but the alarm clock next to the bed. Taking conscious thought of what he was doing, John walked over to the side table, turned off the alarm, and sat down on the bed.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked around the room. When he had come back in the middle of the night, he had dropped his jeans on the floor right next to the bed. They were no longer there, but his phone had been placed next to the clock and lamp on the side table. Dimly, he remembered that before he went to bed the first time, the light hadn't been on indicating that the alarm was set. Not only that, but the harpoon was no longer under the doorknob and the door was slightly ajar.

Sherlock had come into the room while John was asleep, stole his pants, and set the alarm. The dream came back to the doctor suddenly. For not the first time, he prayed that he hadn't talked in his sleep. Looking down, he knew that he couldn't go out there like this. He didn't want to give more fuel for Sherlock's _deductions_. However, he might be able to get to the bathroom, where he could take a cold shower. It was a perfect plan. He would accost his deranged flatmate after a blisteringly cold shower.

* * *

**The game thickens...**


	7. Chapter 7

**I know this chapter is really short. I promise, I'll make up for it in the next chapter. There might be a delay in the next posting because I'm moving in the next week. **

** Here's where things get interesting. I'm not sure if I want to end it with the next chapter or try to keep going. Decisions, decisions.**

* * *

Sherlock and John were standing at the crime scene of a kidnapped child. She was the third one this month and there was no developing pattern among the children. The first was a three-year-old Asian boy, the second a ten-year-old English girl, and now the third was a five-year-old African girl. They were from different types of families, neighborhoods, and schools. There was nothing similar about any of them, except that they had all been taken in the night when their parents had been out and a babysitter had been there.

Lestrade knew that his team could handle the investigation, but the media had caught wind of the second child and blown it into a whirlwind. Now, the Chief was breathing down his next to get results at the next crime scene. And that was why he had called in the investigating duo.

John was standing next to Lestrade while Sherlock poked through the drawers of the girl's dresser. When the doctor had first strolled in after his roommate, Lestrade saw he was walking a little differently. It was as if he were wearing a pair of pants one size too small. Sherlock had come striding onto the scene, much to Donovan's usual annoyance, with his long coat trailing after him, however, as he was analyzing the setting before him, the DI could sense that this wasn't the usual Sherlock before him.

His first hint was that it was taking the man longer than normal to give them his analysis. Lestrade was used to Sherlock beginning talking after about two minutes on the scene, at most. The DI knew enough about people to recognize pride and ego when he saw it, and Sherlock had enough for the whole city of London. He always had to show off his abilities to deduce as quickly as possible. The second clue was that he was pointedly becoming more and more frustrated as he spent more time in the room. He had arrived in his usual haughtiness, but his eyes were now scouring the room, even parts he had already seen, trying to gather every detail possible.

Having known Sherlock for six years, Lestrade quickly noticed that the man was looking every where in the room except at his own roommate and friend. In fact, as Lestrade watched John, the doctor was doing the same thing to the detective. Normally, John watched Sherlock like a puppy in absolute amazement of something.

John cleared his throat. Realizing that he had been staring at the shorter man out of the corner of his eyes, Lestrade went back to watching Sherlock going through the room, leaving it in a disarray. Taking one last, quick glance at John, Lestrade could see that his face was as red as a cherry, but John still wasn't looking at Sherlock.

"Is there something up between you and Sherlock?" Lestrade finally asked.

"No, why do you ask?" John did his best to look as inconspicuous as possible.

"Because I've never seen him like this on a crime scene and you are turning a nice red color, mate. Listen, I know it's none of my business. But I consider you a friend, and Sherlock as close to one as he can get. It's fine. Whatever it is. But I'm concerned about it affecting his job."

"Thanks, Greg. I'll talk to him." John sighed, looking at Greg, and then going back to looking around the room for clues. He doubted that he would spot anything that Sherlock would not.

"Anytime."

"I'll need to see the crime scenes of the other two children." Sherlock said abruptly, striding over to the two men.

"I doubt the parents would be okay with that."

"Then tell them that if they ever want to see their children again, I need to see those crime scenes." With that, Sherlock swept out of the scene.

"Wait, Sher! What did you figure out?" Lestrade yelled after him.

"I'll tell you when I have more data. Right now, I don't want to _assume_ anything." Sherlock replied.

John and Lestrade looked at each other. John sighed and followed the tall man. "I'll talk to him." He stated again over his shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

**So incredibly sorry for the late post. It's been absolutely crazy in my neck of the woods. That being said, I have decided to have an epilogue after this chapter. This one, hopefully, makes up for not only the lateness of this post, but the shortness of the last one. **

**Happy Reading!**

* * *

John had to race after Sherlock upon leaving the scene. Even at a sprint, he almost didn't catch the taxi the detective had got into. Apparently Sherlock had already given the driver the address because he took off the moment John closed the door.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" He turned to the man sitting next to him. Sherlock was staring out the window, pointedly not looking at John.

"You know exactly what is going on."

"Not really. I know everything seems bloody well obvious to you, but I haven't the foggiest about what goes on in that head of yours. You have to let me in sometimes." Sherlock turned to glare at John. It wasn't the glare Sherlock gave when he thought someone was being stupid. It was the glare that Sherlock gave when he was truly and frightfully angry. It pierced through to one's soul. The older man gathered up his courage and stared back, not letting his gaze flick away.

"Is that why you haven't given me your answer? You want me to let you in? If that's the case, I would like you to know that you are the person who knows me best." Sherlock's voice was even, but John could hear the anger simmering just under it. John had to tread very carefully with his words now. While most people would understand what the good doctor meant, Sherlock would delve into the definition of each and every word spoken.

"Just because I supposedly know you best, doesn't mean I understand what's going on. You take off on a whim or make sudden decisions without anyone in on how you got there unless it's convenient to you."

"So, what you are saying is that you want me to tell you how I come to a solution. I give you all of my evidence as to my conclusions regularly." John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"No, Sherlock. I don't just want to know how you get to a conclusion of a case." Just as he was about to say what exactly he wanted, Sherlock interrupted him.

"Then what do you want, John? Because this game is getting rather dull and for someone who seems to care so much; you seem to not care that me waiting for your answer is affecting my observations on this case." Sherlock snapped.

"You've never been affected like this before. When we were in Baskerville, even when you were experiencing fear, you could rattle off numerous conclusion about some people in our inn. Why is this affecting you now?"

It was Sherlock's turn to let out a deep breath. His complete physique changed from angrily stoic, to shoulders' drooping just slightly and his head lowering so little that John might have thought it was an illusion from shadows. "I don't know. I have been unable to get the thought of your answer out of my mind since that morning. At first, it was just a minor thing always in the back of my mind palace. Then it moved without any action on my part. I can hardly think of anything else now."

John and Sherlock sat in silence for a little while, letting the streets pass them. Both looking out their separate windows. John knew that this couldn't go on any longer. Not only had it been a few weeks - okay, well, three and a half, but he didn't want to admit to keeping count - but now, the lives of small children were at stake. There was something he wanted to know first. It was something that John had to know first. Sherlock's answers could finally shed some light on their relationship from the other man's point of view.

Not only that, but those answers would allow John to claw his way out of knowing whether or not he could every have a true relationship with the man.

"I have two questions for you, Sherlock. When you answer them, I'll give you my answer." John waited for Sherlock to say something, but he didn't. John took that silence as an agreement. "The first is, do you want to kiss me? And the second is, do you want me to kiss you? When you give me your answers, I'll give you mine." He turned back inward to look at Sherlock.

"So you are willing to risk the lives of the children?" The detective hadn't turned to look back at John. John knew that Sherlock was trying to get the answers out of him, but he had already said his piece and put an end to their game.

"I'm not risking anything. I know that you have the answers, I just need to hear them."

"And will my answers affect or change yours?"

"I dunno, maybe."

"That's cheating." As the head of black curls turned, gray eyes met blue.

"No, because I have never given you mine. You've made an assumption based on observations. You should have learned by now not to do that."

"Would you like me to 'let you in' on my reasons behind my answers?"

"You don't have to tell me right now, but I will probably ask for them at some point." Just then, the taxi pulled up to their flat. John got out and walked around the door to hand money through the window to pay the cabbie. As he turned back, he saw Sherlock heading into their building.

He had left the door open for John.

John followed through the doorway and up the stairs. As he came into the living room, Sherlock was already laid out on the couch with his hands laid together under his chin. Long coat on the rack by the door. John took off his coat to place it next to Sherlock's and went into the kitchen to make two cups of tea.

When he finished, he brought both cups over to the coffee table by the couch and sat on it next to the cups. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Yes, John." They sat in silence for a few moments. John sipped his tea, waiting for an answer. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He was beginning to understand how Sherlock felt. "Well?" He asked impatiently.

"Well, what?"

"What are your answers?"

"I gave them to you. Weren't you paying attention?" Sherlock turned to look at John with an annoyed expression.

"Wait, what? When?"

"Just now."

"When you said 'Yes, John'?"

"Yes."

"So, you want to kiss me?"

"Yes."

"And you want me to kiss you?"

"You know very well that I do not like repeating myself.."

"Right, well." John cleared his throat. The moment had come for him to reciprocate. He couldn't very well back out now with destroying their friendship. Sherlock had said that he both wanted to kiss John and the tall man had also wanted to be kissed by John. Having lived with him for long enough, John knew that Sherlock didn't _do _physical contact. Could that mean that Sherlock might have the desire but somehow still didn't want to?

Maybe the answers didn't help John at all.

But John was getting away with his thoughts again. If he started second guessing everything right now, he would just end up back where they had started. This was ending, now. He took a breath, set his cup down on the table and looked Sherlock in the eyes. "Yes." The single word was not accompanied by anything else.

"I was right."

"Yeah, you were." They sat in silence for a while longer, John was looking at Sherlock's eyes, but he had the funny feeling that though the other man's eyes were pointed at his own, Sherlock was looking through him. John thought about what had just happened. He had just admitted to wanting to kiss a man. He didn't know if this officially made him gay, or bi, or whatever. And he really didn't know what it would entail with Sherlock Holmes. But it couldn't be taken back now.

"I knew I was."

Both men had said that they wanted to kiss each other. But neither had moved. Just because Sherlock had said that he wanted to kiss John didn't mean that he was going to. Did the kiss mean they were going to start a relationship? What would that bring? Sex? Sleeping in the same bed? Holding hands? Letting the world know? John could feel his heart rate picking up. He was getting himself worked up over questions that he didn't even know had answers.

"OH!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up from the couch, hitting the coffee table and knocking over one of the tea cups. "Of course. The connection is obvious. How Lestrade could not have seen it, I don't know. His idiocy is astounding sometimes." He yanked his phone out of an inner pocket and began texting the DI furiously.

"What's the connection, Sherlock?" John asked, picking up the cup and saucer and heading to the kitchen for a towel. He let the remark about his friend slide for the moment.

"Their finances. Donovan had mentioned that the third set of parents were broke despite their house and living style when we were coming in. They have all sold their children off and made it look like a kidnapping because you cannot have a child one day and not the next. It is so simple, this would not have rated even a one." John came out, cleaned up the spill, and took his own tea over to his chair.

"Congratulations." He pulled the medical journal from his side table, and began reading. Truly, he was happy that Sherlock had solved the case. Lestrade would put the parents through the ringer to get the information and the children would be found. But the word had come out strained.

"You said you wanted to kiss me." John didn't look away from his article, but he didn't continue reading either. Where was Sherlock going with this?

"Yeah, I did."

"Usually, when you decide you want something, you do it."

"Not always, though."

"Apparently." John heard Sherlock walking toward him slowly. John wasn't reading anymore, but his eyes still flicked across the page from muscle memory. All of his focus was now on listening to those gentle footfalls. With every footstep he was getting closer and closer until finally, he was standing in front of John's chair. John's feet were spread apart, as he liked to sit, and Sherlock's were just between his legs. "You can stop pretending to read now, John." If it were even possible, John would have sworn that Sherlock's voice dropped to an even lower pitch.

John lowered his journal and looked up. Sherlock was bent at the waist, his face about one foot away from John's. The gray eyes were staring directly at him, not through him like earlier. They were looking at John. As if to glean some sort of information. He looked at the lips on that face. They were a slightly different color than the skin surrounding them; a light pink juxtaposed against almost-sickly pale. John's heart began to race again and his face warmed. "Your eyes are dilated again and I would suspect that your heart rate has increased." Sherlock apparently had the decency to not mention that John was staring at his lips.

Sherlock reached a hand out and felt for John's wrist. Without saying anything, both men knew Sherlock was right. John's heart was racing. As John looked up into those eyes, an observation hit him. Sherlock's eyes were also dilated. Shaking, he reached out a hand to take a hold of Sherlock's wrist. He found the radial artery and counted. Sherlock's heart rate was also elevated. The man had talked about the body's chemical responses to sentiment and love so many times that it was almost amusing to John that Sherlock was finally showing the 'symptoms'. It would have been more amusing if John wasn't thinking about those soft lips and the things he wanted to do to them.

"What are you going to do, Sherlock?" John finally asked, softly. He was afraid that if he spoke too loudly, he would break the spell that held them like that. That Sherlock would come to his senses about sentiment and emotion and would decide that he really didn't have any physical attraction to the doctor.

"I am going to kiss you, John." The reply came from those soft, pale lips that started coming closer and closer. As John saw the movement, he moved instinctively forward as well. They were tentatively closing the distance between them until finally, lips touched lips.

The first time Sherlock had kissed John, John had been too surprised to really feel what was going on. Having more time to prepare on this occasion, when the other man's lips contacted his, a jolt of electricity shot through him and a pool of warmth started in his stomach and spread outward to every finger and toe. He could feel the coolness of Sherlock's interal body temperature better from the lips that pressed against his. It wasn't anything like kissing a woman; the lips were smaller, less full, and John could feel the very slight growth of facial hair that had occurred in the last 12 hours. But, oh God, it felt good.

After a few seconds, John felt the lips begin to leave his. Not wanting the kiss to end, John instinctively took control of the situation. He took his hand off of Sherlock's wrist, grabbed a fistful of that ridiculously expensive shirt, and yanked Sherlock back to him, crashing their lips together, nearly bruising them between two sets of teeth. At the same time, he pulled his other hand from Sherlock's grip and entangled it in the dark curls on Sherlock's head.

He felt Sherlock fumble at the sudden forward momentum and have to put his knees on the ground between John's legs to recover his balance. As John shifted to capture Sherlock's lower lip, two cool hands came up to John's neck. The thumbs brushing back and forth along his jawline. The warmth in his body began to pool in his stomach, and then lower. He began to suck on Sherlock's lip. Just then, he felt a slight nip on his lip by the other set of teeth. The warmth in his groin grew, trousers beginning to grow tighter than was comfortable. His tongue came out and flicked the captured lip. Dear lord, this all felt so good. Sherlock's tongue came out and played against John's. And then, they were exploring each other's lips and tongues and anything else they could reach. John's grip on Sherlock's head had become a death grip, he never wanted this moment to end.

But then, everything stopped. Sherlock had pulled his lips from John's and was resting their foreheads together. Both men were breathing heavily. Trying to calm their raging hearts.

"Do you want to move to the bedroom?" Sherlock asked of John.

Chuckling, John replied, "Do you really want to ask me that?"

"No, not really." Sherlock stood up, grabbed John's hand, and easily pulled him to the taller man's bedroom.

John wasn't sure what was going to happen next, well, he did know what was going to happen next, but after that was a mystery. Thinking back on his relationship with the detective, he had moved in with the man, refused a bribe for him, and even killed before he had even begun to barely know him. Sherlock Holmes had always been a mystery. And he probably always will be, John mused. But, at least it wasn't dull or boring.


	9. Epilogue

"Why must people be so imbecilic? Really, how could you not know that your son had been stealing things over time to pay for his gambling habit. Truly, there ought to be a test administered before people are allowed to breed."

Sherlock was ranting about another case, or lack there of. He hadn't had many recently, so when the prospect of a thief who could get through locked doors and visited regularly appeared on the blog, the detective had jumped all over it. John was watching as his flatmate, friend, and lover insulted every member of the family when the case hadn't turned out to be all that interesting.

As Sherlock to a pause to breathe, he looked at the shorter man.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked of his companion. It had been something that the detective had started when John had joined him on cases. He had asked the question almost as an afterthought, as though he needed confirmation that what he was the reason why someone was upset. It had changed though. This simple question had evolved to one where Sherlock appeared and sounded as if he truly wanted and valued John's opinion.

"Bit not good, yeah." John confirmed the speculation with a slight head nod as well. Donovan and Anderson had tried to take the piss out of them, but of course Sherlock had jumped all over them. John couldn't say he felt sorry for the two, he wasn't thrilled at how Sally reacted when she found out, but John would never wish Sherlock's anger on another person alive, ever.

On the whole, most people didn't know because John and Sherlock weren't one of those couples who had to hold on to each other every minute of every day. However, it did give John something to 'entertain' Sherlock with then they were going through a slow-spell of cases or he was being a particular pain in the ass. John figured the two of them were going to be up late tonight with Sherlock's agitation and energy. The man did his best to hide his grin, but Sherlock saw it, of course.

Sherlock was able to keep his comments to himself as John grabbed the check from the father and hopped into the cab next to the younger man. In an attempt to ease Sherlock's frustration at the world, he gently patted the other man's hand. Sherlock gave the address and then turned on John.

"There are hundreds of websites dedicated to helping people learn to deduce as I do. If they would only take one second to learn, they could figure out many of these problems by themselves." Sherlock huffed to himself and stared to turn out the window, not taking his hand from John's.

"Something's been bothering me for a while now, Sherlock." John figured that this might be the best time to bring up this particular factoid.

"Yes, John?"

Using everything that he had learned from the man about emotions and hiding them, along with playing innocent, John asked his question. "Why is your website called 'The Science of Deduction'?"

"Really, John. You should know this by now. Maybe I was wrong about you." John almost lost it at the sound of Sherlock's frustration and impatience at the man.

"I don't mean it like that. What I'm say is, why is it called 'The Science of Deduction' when it should be called 'The Science of _In_duction'?"

John grinned broadly as he could see Sherlock's grey eyes flicker back and forth, but not really seeing anything. He was processing what John had just said. In fact, John didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock at a loss for words like this. While John had poked fun at Sherlock's lack of general knowledge when it pertained to things like the government and the solar system, Sherlock had always been correct about logic and assumptions, or deductions as he always liked to call them.

"Where did you come up with that?" Sherlock finally turned around to look at the grinning man.

"I overheard some people talking about it once and I looked it up. Did you ever know that your website is wrong?"

"It's not _wrong_."

"Yes, it is. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm not going to do anything." Sherlock crossed his arms and looked over at John defiantly.

"That's fine with me. It's still wrong. But that's okay, it'll be our little secret." John leaned over and gave his detective a gentle peck on the lips, then he went back to his own side of the cab.

After a few moments of silence, "John."

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Those people were complete idiots."

"I know."

"John."

"Yeah?"

"I'm bored."

"You won't be for much longer." John stated as he saw 221B less than a block away. He then turned to Sherlock. Sherlock was smiling at him shyly. John didn't think Sherlock was every going to be truly bored ever again.

John was lying in bed that night. He could hear Sherlock's soft breathing next to him. He had to be very careful because with one movement or noise, the other man would wake from his light slumber. It explained so much about why Sherlock never appeared to sleep except when heavily drugged.

His head was just lying on his pillow, arms by his side. His left hand desperately wanted to reach out and touch the other man, but he was hesitant. John had been standing in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, when he realized that he was cold. It wasn't the kind of cold where he could pull on a jacket and be fine. It was deeper. A bone chilling cold. The doctor in him told him that this was an illness symptom and he needed to take care of his body to be healthy. But the detective in him knew that he wasn't this cold just moments ago when Sherlock had been standing by him brushing his teeth as well.

Why had he been so cold? John turned his head to look at the back of his lover's, covered in a tangled mess of tight, black curls. The doctor wasn't cold now, so it wasn't some form of illness. Suddenly, realization dawned on him. He had been complaining of his surgery being much colder lately, as well. In fact, he had been feeling this freezing sensation whenever he wasn't at home. Whenever he wasn't around Sherlock.

Staring at those curls, John began to see a little clearer.

"I think I'm in love with you." John mouthed.

"Took you long enough." Sherlock mumbled back.

Horrified, "I thought you were asleep."

"You were too loud, couldn't sleep. Decided to wait for you to talk to me."

"Too loud?"

"Your thinking."

"Right." Sherlock rolled over so he was facing John. "Wait, what do you mean by took you long enough?"

"In your typical relationships, you tell the other person that you love them approximately twenty days after the first event of intercourse. We have been having sex for twice that. Therefore, I have been expecting you to say it since March fourth."

"Right, well." John cleared his throat. Now that the words were out, John knew that they fit. He did love Sherlock. He couldn't imagine being with any other person on the planet. No one made him think and react and grow like this man did. No one could make him laugh as much or be as frustrating in the same five minute span. He wasn't sure how long he had been in love, but he had a funny feeling that is was before they ever went into that gay club.

Of course, now that he thought about it, Sherlock hadn't said he loved John back. Could Sherlock love like other people? Could Sherlock love at all? Would they have a "happily every after" like marriage was typically thought of? John wanted someone in his life to grow old with. But would Sherlock get bored with him over time?

"What about you?"

"Don't be thick, John."

"What does that mean?"

"I'd be lost without my blogger." Sherlock reached out, raised John's arm to slide in the nook created, and laid an arm across the doctor's torso. Maybe this was as close to "I love you" as John was going to get, but he was going to take it and run with it.

* * *

_What a wild ride it's been. Thank you so much for all of your support throughout this story._

_If you have any suggestions, I would love to hear about them. What did you like? What didn't you? What could have been improved upon? Anything at all._


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